Would It Kill You to Text?
by sherlockian4evr
Summary: Sherlock has run off to who knows where without so much as a text to John. John has had enough and decides to teach his friend a lesson.
1. Chapter 1

John stood abruptly and walked across the living room. He glared out the window, looking for the familiar form of his flatmate in his Belstaff. There was no sign of Sherlock to be seen on the pathway as far as the doctor could see.

"So help me, Sherlock, your fingers had better be broken so you can't text me," John muttered under his breath.

It was ridiculous, the doctor knew, for him to expect his friend to do him the courtesy of letting him know he would be returning late to the flat. And why should he? Sherlock was a grown man, theoretically capable of taking care of himself. That thought made John snort in derision. The detective was just as likely to get himself shot, stabbed, drugged or kidnapped as he was to breath.

All of a sudden, John decided he'd had enough. He went up to his room and packed a bag with several days' worth of clothes. Next he gathered his toiletries and shoved them into the bag. On his way out of the flat, he stopped and grabbed his laptop. He didn't bother turning off the lights when he left. He just slammed the door, then jogged down the stairs.

John was going to let Sherlock Bloody Holmes get a taste of his own medicine. To do that, he would have to go somewhere the detective would never think to look. That left out staying with Harry or Greg. The thought of calling Mycroft flitted through the doctor's mind and he actually laughed. Sherlock certainly wouldn't look for him there, but he didn't think he could survive staying with the government official even if Mycroft agreed to the idea. After a few moments' thought, he smiled to himself. He hailed a cab and, climbing into the car, told the cabbie to take him to 'a nice hotel, one with lots of tourists'. Sherlock would never think to look for him in such a place. He'd be able to hide there for days. As the cab made its way to the hotel, John pulled out his phone and powered it off, ensuring he couldn't be tracked that way. He didn't have any intention of making things easy on the detective.

* * *

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket with the intention of texting John. He immediately read the four increasingly irate texts from the doctor and suppressed a wince. He wouldn't have given a toss if he had received the texts from anyone else, but he did try to avoid irritating John. Well, most of the time. He sent his friend a text.

 **I'm on my way home from Barts. - SH**

He waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming. He sent another text.

 **Attended fascinating autopsy. Deceased suffered from Fibrodysplasia. - SH**

After a moment he sent yet another.

 **Also performed research in the lab. Lost track of time. - SH**

Sherlock nodded. That had almost been an apology. John would no doubt take it as such.

Hailing a cab, the detective put his phone away and didn't concern himself with John's silence. Instead, he delved into his Mind Palace and replayed the autopsy from beginning to end. It wasn't until he got back to an empty 221B and no note or text from John that he became concerned.


	2. Chapter 2

John checked into the hotel, only momentarily taken aback by the cost. They had just been paid an ungodly sum for their most recent case and he could afford this place, especially if he dipped into Sherlock's portion as he was tempted to do.

When the doctor had made his way up to his room, he closed the door behind him and took in his posh surroundings. He grinned broadly. Sherlock would definitely never look for him in a place like this. He crossed over to the bed and collapsed onto it, dropping his bag to the floor. It felt so good to lay down and the bed was so very comfortable, far more comfortable than his own.

With a rumble, John's stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten lately. He rolled over and grabbed the room service menu off the bedside table. After reading it, he ordered a pizza and two beers, then kicked off his shoes and settled back on the bed again. He wondered if Sherlock had noticed he was missing yet. He decided it wasn't very bloody likely. He'd be surprised if it didn't take a couple of days for the detective to notice. Hell, Sherlock would probably just carry on talking to him like he was there.

The doctor's irritation rose anew. Little did he know that, at that very moment, Sherlock was typing out his 27th text. If John had had his phone on, he could have read them all.

 **I'm on my way home from Barts. - SH**

 **Attended fascinating autopsy. Deceased suffered from Fibrodysplasia. - SH**

 **Also performed research in the lab. Lost track of time. - SH**

 **John, where are you? - SH**

 **Are you at the pub? - SH**

 **Is Lestrade with you? - SH**

 **Answer me. - SH**

 **John?**

 **John?**

 **John?**

 **Where are you?**

 **Have you been kidnapped?**

 **John?**

 **Are you dead?**

 **You had best not be dead.**

 **If you are dead, I'll be angry.**

 **I'm using the microwave for an experiment. It involves lungs.**

 **I'm taking the labels off all the food tins.**

 **John?**

 **I found your gun.**

 **John?**

 **Mrs. Hudson just yelled at me.**

 **Please answer me.**

 **I said please. I never say please.**

 **I'm worried, John.**

 **John?**

 **I'm coming to find you.**

But John didn't have his phone on and he lay there convinced that his friend was oblivious to his absence.

A knock came at his door. Looking through the peep hole, he verified it was room service. John opened the door and traded a generous tip for the food, then he returned to the bed, turned on the telly and found something not too boring to watch. Eating his pizza and drinking his beers, he put all thought of his friend from his mind.

* * *

Lestrade looked at his ringing mobile and did a double take. The call was from Sherlock, Sherlock who always texted and never, ever called. "Sherlock, what's wrong, what's happened?"

 _"It's John. He's missing."_

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. "Calm down, Sherlock. What makes you say that? I talked to him just a few hours ago."

 _"He's not here, Gavin! That should be clear enough for your dull little mind to grasp."_

The DI reminded himself that going over to Baker Street and killing Sherlock wouldn't be a wise career move. "Is there any evidence of foul play?"

 _"No, but he isn't here and he didn't leave a note. He's not answering his texts either."_

Greg sighed. "Has it occurred to you that maybe he got lucky? Picked up a lady at the pub?"

 _"Lestrade..."_

"If he hasn't made it home by tomorrow evening, give me a call. Until then, go dissect something or blow something up. I'm busy."

 _"Lestrade, so help me..."_

Greg rang off. Shaking his head, he pocketed his phone. Sherlock really was an insufferable prat.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke to strange surroundings, voices and a knocking sound. It took him a moment to remember where he was. Looking over at the clock, he saw that it had gone 9 in the morning. The television was still on, accounting for the voices. The knocking came again from the hotel room door. "One moment," the doctor called as he got out of bed and threw on his dressing gown. He didn't remember falling asleep and had to stop to turn off the telly.

When John peered through the peep hole in the door, he sighed, then stepped back and opened the door. "Come in, Mycroft." Of course the government official had located him and was here. What else had he expected? He waited until the other man had entered, then closed the door and followed him to the chairs where they each took a seat.

Mycroft leant his umbrella against the chair arm, then gave the doctor a thin smile. "Good morning, John. Are you enjoying your little holiday?"

Not bothering to answer, John asked with a sinking feeling, "Does he know I'm here?"

"Not as of yet, obviously. If he did, he would already be here. No, I desired to speak with you before making the decision to inform him of your location." Mycroft studied his fingernails. "Although, you should know he has texted me incessantly and even phoned twice."

Anger flared hot in the doctor. "Oh, I go missing and he suddenly remembers how to text and make a call. That's just great. Your brother's a right arse, you know that."

"Have you ever heard me say otherwise?" The government official studied John, then nodded. "Ah. I see. That's the way of it." He stood, taking up his umbrella by the handle.

The doctor shot to his feet. "What do you mean 'I see'?" John asked. Bloody Holmeses and their bloody deductive skills, he thought. They would drive him mad yet.

"I applaud your intentions, doctor, now that I know you don't plan on leaving my brother permanently. If you succeed in teaching him a lesson, I shall thank you." Mycroft gave John a marginally broader smile than normal. "He does endanger himself far too often without calling for backup. I would much prefer he depend on you and keep you informed of his activities. He has never consented to do so with me or that Detective Inspector he works with. I'm sure it's quite worrisome for you not to know if he's merely lost in thought somewhere, kidnapped or worse. It's a problem that has plagued me for years."

"Um, right. Thanks, I think." He thought there had been some sort of compliment in there, but he wasn't certain. John took a deep breath. "So you won't tell Sherlock where I am." It was a question disguised as a statement.

"Indeed not. That is, not unless I feel he is about to do something... inadvisable," Mycroft said seriously. "In that event, the little lesson shall be cancelled."

The doctor nodded his understanding. He didn't need an explanation about what Mycroft meant by 'inadvisable'. John knew all too well what was implied. "Thank you, Mycroft." When the government official didn't move immediately to the door, John asked, "Was there something else?"

"Yes. Call that Detective Inspector friend of yours and let him know where you are. I imagine Sherlock has been driving him to distraction. Let the poor man know your not dead. I'm sure you can trust him to keep your secret."

John blinked. He felt suddenly guilty. He hadn't thought about poor Greg or even Mycroft for that matter. "Of course. I'll do that. Thanks."

At that, Mycroft let himself out of the hotel room, leaving the doctor to make his phone call.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg looked at his phone, breathing in a sharp breath when he saw it was John calling. Sherlock had almost convinced him that something had happened to his friend and he was considering calling together a task force. Now he hoped he wouldn't have to. He answered and started to speak, but the doctor beat him to it.

"Don't say my name!" John said urgently, "not if Sherlock's there. I don't want him to find me."

The DI walked over to his office door and shut it, then turned his back on it so he was facing into his office. "What the bloody hell is going on, John? Sherlock is about to drive me mad. He's convinced you've been kidnapped or worse."

"I'm fine," John replied. "Look, it's a long story, but in short, I'm trying to teach him a lesson. You know how he is, Greg. He runs off without telling anyone where he's going and nearly gets himself killed on a regular basis. I've had enough."

Greg walked across his office and looked out the window. "I understand the temptation, god, you know I do, but, John, he's frantic. I... I almost feel sorry for him."

The doctor started pacing the hotel room. "It's that bad?" Why hadn't Mycroft said something?

"You know it is if I feel sorry for the git." Greg ran his fingers through his grey hair. "You have to let him know you're alright. "If you don't..."

"Yes, papa," John acknowledged. He felt even more guilty now. How had he got on the wrong side of things?

"That's me, Papa Lestrade," Greg agreed, then he sighed. "Seriously, John. I'm not joking. You haven't seen how worried he is or how he's tearing himself up. If anything ever really happened to you... Well, it would be the old days all over again and that would be the end of him."

"Is he there?" the doctor asked, hoping he was.

"No, he's out trying to find clues. You should see him. He doesn't look good."

"Alright, Greg, you've made your point." John rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "Look, call him, get him there and I'll come on over. Maybe he won't kill me in front of witnesses."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that," the DI quipped. "I'll call him right now."

"Ta. I'm on my way." John rang off. He got dressed quickly, then hurried down to the street to hail a cab. Why was it he felt like a complete wanker when the whole thing had started off as Sherlock's fault?

* * *

"Sherlock," Greg said the moment the detective answered his phone, "I have what looks like good news on John. It's a solid lead. Get to my office immediately."

It was a measure of Sherlock's concern that he had actually answered his phone. "Tell me over the phone," he demanded as he leapt to his feet and headed towards the door. "It would only be a waste of time for me to come all that way. John may not have that much time."

"It's not something I can show you over the phone. And before you ask, I can't send you a photo either." Greg just wanted Sherlock to agree, manipulating the bastard was almost impossible.

"Lestrade, if anything happens to John, I shall hold you culpable." The detective rang off and stalked over to the edge of the pathway and hailed a cab. "New Scotland Yard," he snapped at the cabbie. The entire way, he stared out the window. As soon as he had recovered John, he would have a long talk with Lestrade, a very long talk.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock stepped off the lift and stalked towards Greg's office, his face cold and unreadable. When Donovan made as if to say something to him, he didn't pause, but swept past her. He pushed the door to the DI's office open so hard the back of it bounced off the wall. "So help me, Lestra..." The sight of John standing at parade rest in the centre of Greg's office brought the detective's words to a halt, but he lurched forward, placing his hand on the doctor's arm. "John, you're alright. What happened? How did you get away? Where..."

"Sherlock, stop. I'll explain everything." The doctor held up an entreating hand. "Please. Stop." He felt his stomach churning with guilt. How had he got on the wrong side of things? He knew the answer, he had let his anger run away with him.

"Right," Greg said. "I'll just step out and let you boys have a chat. Try to keep it down to a low shout." With that, the DI made his exit, closing the door behind him. Officers were staring in his direction. "Get back to work. This is nothing to do with you."

Inside the office, the detective's expression had already morphed from relief to suspicion. Upon Lestrade's unexpected exit, Sherlock had been prompted to look more closely at his friend. John didn't show any evidence of having been abducted or waylaid in any fashion. There were no bruises or scrapes. The doctor's knuckles weren't abraded. His shoes weren't any more scuffed than usual. A cold sort of anger welled up inside the detective, replacing the relief he had felt mere moments before. "You were never in any danger, were you, John?"

"No, I... Look, let me explain. You were gone and I was angry with you. You weren't at the flat and I couldn't get you to answer your phone or texts and I just..." John pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt like a complete arse trying to explain himself.

Sherlock's mouth twisted itself into a sneer. "You just thought you'd teach me a lesson." He took a step away from his friend. "That was terribly ambitious of you. Of course, Mycroft must have known. He could have eased my mind. How nice to know how much he cares." The detective started to turn towards the door, but paused. "I get busy, John. I don't think. You know that. But what you did, that was deliberate cruelty. I thought better of you than that." With those words, he flung the door open and walked away, leaving John behind.

The doctor's own anger flared. He hadn't set out to be cruel, but to teach a lesson. He marched after Sherlock, the officers that were in his path dividing to make way for him to pass. Even Sally took a precautionary step back. John arrived just in time to slip onto the lift with Sherlock before the doors closed. They stood there in an uncomfortable silence that the doctor broke. "We're going to talk about this. Maybe what I did was wrong, but I did it for the right reasons." He didn't get a reaction from the detective who continued to stare ahead at the lift doors. John grabbed Sherlock's arm, only to be thrown off as the doors parted.

"I have nothing to say to you," Sherlock hissed, then took off at a brisk pace.

John let him go. It was obvious they both needed to cool off before anything approaching a productive conversation could take place. He'd walk back to Baker Street. Maybe by the time he arrived, he would have an idea of what he wanted to say and maybe Sherlock would listen.


	6. Chapter 6

John looked up at the window of 221B and saw the silhouette of Sherlock standing there, his violin and bow hanging at his side. With determination, John stalked to the front door, then up the stairs to the flat. The doctor took a deep breath and prepared himself, then he opened the door and stepped into B, ready for a skirmish.

Sherlock didn't react to his presence. He just kept staring out the window.

"We need to talk and we're going to do it now," John stated firmly.

The detective swayed slightly where he stood and inhaled sharply, but didn't turn around. "Is that what it's like?"

"What?" John asked, bewildered. He had expected a full force Sherlockian frontal assault, not... this. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock turned around and faced the doctor, his face pale and his expression drawn. "When I forget to call, is that what it feels like to you, the sense of dread and concern?"

With a nod, the doctor agreed, "Yeah. It's a pretty miserable feeling." He gave a sad sort of laugh. "I've always worried about my family and friends and they mostly live boring lives apart from my army mates, but you... you live a genuinely dangerous life, Sherlock. There have been times when life and death hinged on me being there and only by a margin of seconds. How can I not worry when you dissapear without letting me know where you're going?"

Clearly trying to absorb John's words, the detective turned and put his violin away. He closed his case and let his hands linger on it a few moments. "Why do you care what happens to me? I'm a freak, everyone says so. Mycroft only cares because he has to."

John found that his left hand was clinched into a fist and had to force it open. "You. Are not. A freak," he spat out. "Anyone, anyone who says that is an unmitigated idiot and a dickhead. What you are is brilliant, amazing, a genius, fun to be around and, mark me well, my absolute best friend. The next person who calls you a freak in front of me is going to get a mouthful of my fist. So, unless you fancy getting punched, don't repeat it."

Somewhere during that speech, Sherlock went incredibly still, eerily so.

"Sherlock. Mate. Are you alright?" John asked, concerned.

"You worry about me because... I'm your... best friend?"

The doctor laughed uncomfortably. "Yes, yes, exactly."

"I've never had a best friend. I only ever played with Mycroft and he made me feel like an idiot," Sherlock confessed. "I don't know how to be a friend."

Suddenly Sherlock's actions appeared in a whole new light. John could have kicked himself. His friend hadn't known any better, hadn't known it was the polite thing to do to give John a courtesy call when he wouldn't be in. "You're a good friend, Sherlock. Really. Don't change. Well, except for the phone call thing. And," the doctor scuffed the side of his shoe against the carpet, "I should apologise for what I did. It wasn't very friend like of me to disappear on you like that. I shouldn't have done it. I should have just talked to you about it. That's what friends do, talk these sorts of things out." He paused. "Am I forgiven?"

Sherlock grinned. "Let me bring those diseased lungs Molly has for me to the flat and, yes, you're forgiven."

John barked a laugh. "Deal."

"But I don't have to forgive Mycroft for not telling me where you were. I know he figured it out."

"He's on his own," John agreed as he finally shrugged off his coat. "Oi! Where are you going?"

"I was just about to text you," Sherlock said from the door. "I'm off to get those lungs."


End file.
